


your kisses are a philtre, your mouth an amphora

by agent_cupcake



Series: Follower Giveaway Requests [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Reader is Not My Unit | Byleth, Yandere, Yandere Sylvain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_cupcake/pseuds/agent_cupcake
Summary: Second-place winner of my giveaway asked for a continuation of yandere Sylvain I wrote a while back(right here https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279617/chapters/53731363)//The way he feels must be love, right?
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Reader
Series: Follower Giveaway Requests [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883035
Comments: 16
Kudos: 108





	your kisses are a philtre, your mouth an amphora

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Over an hour late, perhaps it was pathetic that you should feel so excited to hear his voice. Of course, you could be angry about your date’s tardiness afterward, but in that second, you were just happy that he had shown up. You looked up, a smile already half-formed on your face.

But it wasn’t your date.

“He-Oh, Sylvain.” Your voice cracked around his name. Did he hear it? He looked oh-so normal, standing beside the bench in the little section of town where you’d been waiting. Natural, even. “You startled me.” You watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, trying to brush past your slip up. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know. I was just in the area. It must be fate, running into you like this,” he said, spouting a line you’d heard him use a time or two. Or twenty. You stared up at him and his roguish half-smile wordlessly. Oddly, Sylvain’s confidence seemed to wane. “That is, uh… Mind if I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the spot beside you—discomfort shot through your stomach, hot and immediate.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you told him, the words followed by a twinge of guilt. Not that he deserved it. The events of the other night were still fresh in your mind, even if you knew you were better off pretending it never happened. Besides, having Sylvain here when your date showed up would be nothing but a recipe for disaster. Not that you were holding on to much hope for that anymore.

“Why?” he asked, having the gall to look hurt by the simple rejection. That was replaced by narrowed eyes a second later. “Oh, I get it. You’re waiting for someone, right?”

“No,” you answered, but the response was too quick and too defensive to make any sort of case for honesty.

“Well, I doubt you got all dressed up just to hang out all by yourself,” Sylvain said. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

“That’s none of your business,” you told him sternly. The inflection of your voice was off, too harsh for the words. Not just because of him, but because you were pretty sure that “lucky guy” had stood you up, and Sylvain was the absolute last person you ever wanted to witness the humiliation. “So if you would leave, I-”

“How long have you been waiting?” Sylvain asked, cutting to the heart of it without even trying. It didn’t surprise you that he’d find you so easy to read, but it still hurt. Your shoulders slumped, and Sylvain sat, and you didn’t stop him.

It was quiet in this little section of town, even though the main thoroughfare bordered the grassy area. Conversation buzzed as students and merchants and townsfolk went about their night, the sensation of a festival in the air. The atmosphere of Garreg Mach had changed throughout the war campaign. Especially after the Alliance began providing merchant support and all of the many material benefits they could offer, things had livened up.

“I am sorry, you know,” Sylvain said after a moment of the relative silence.

“It’s fine,” you replied with an overly bright tone, barely missing a beat. “It’s not like I really knew him.”

“No, not about that. I’m sorry about the other night,” he said, giving you a sideways glance. “The things I said were out of line. I’m sorry if I scared you, or hurt you.” He heaved a sigh, a weary sound. “I lost my temper when I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry for that.”

Lost his temper. In your mind, you could recall the dark tempest behind his lovely eyes, the stony cast of his expression. Rage made of porcelain. But now you could find nothing of the like on Sylvain’s face, as if that man had never existed in the first place. All of the feelings you’d been harboring —anger, fear, confusion— evaporated as you looked at his face now. It was so hard for you to believe these were just more of his pretty words, not when you could see the guilt reflected in his eyes. And maybe you should have been angrier, but it was easier not to be. It was easier to look at Sylvain and see the friend you’d grown so close to in these dark times.

“It’s okay,” you said. “The stress of the war… I think it’s fair to say that all of us have said things we don’t mean.”

He turned to you, head-on, meeting your eyes. “And if I told you that I meant what I said?” Sylvain asked. “At least, before things got heated.”

Your lips parted, looking for an answer you didn’t have. He smiled.

“That was a joke; you don’t have to look so scared.”

“Okay,” you said awkwardly.

He sighed, once again looking away. “I guess what I’m asking for is a do-over. Maybe I don’t deserve it, but all I’m asking for is a chance. I want… I want to make it up to you. Besides, I know I can give you better than whatever idiot is standing you up right now.”

“You make it sound like it was a date,” you said.

“With the way you look, it’d be a crime if it wasn’t,” Sylvain said, fixing you once again with his winning smile. “What were you going to do on this not-date?”

“Eat, I guess,” you said, shrugging.

“That’s it?”

“What else would we do?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Sylvain replied, returning to the endearing borderline-awkward tone. “I just meant that, as far as first impressions go, that’s a terrible way to start. Something so standard and unimaginative is an insult to your beauty and intellect. What kind of guy would take a girl like you out on such a lame date?”

“The kind of guy who would stand me up, I guess,” you said.

“His loss is my gain. Girls love guys who sweep in and save them from heartbreak, yeah? So, if I were to ask for the pleasure of escorting you in his stead…” Sylvain’s head tilted, his expression hopeful. And, in all honesty, you were grateful. Right then, things were so normal you could almost forget about what had happened the other night.

“What would we be doing?” you asked.

“I heard there was an opera in town. And I just so happen to have tickets. We could swing by that after catching a late dinner. What do you say?”

“It’s not a date,” you clarified.

“Nope. No dating here,” he said, exaggerating the words. “Just two friends going out for a completely platonic and normal good time.”

You pursed your lips, wondering if you wanted to laugh or berate him for not taking you seriously. Ultimately, you didn’t do either. “Okay.”

And things were normal. The food was excellent; the company was even better. True to his word, it was precisely like things used to be with Sylvain. No mention of what had been said in the commons room, no awkward tension or conversations of romance or marriage or titles or Crests. The opera was fantastic, a troupe of performers from the Alliance. It was a happy story, a comedy. The makeshift opera hall erupted with the sounds of laughter, yours included.

When you left the show, it was late and the night was dark. The smell was your first clue, the wet scent of humidity. The storm began with the ominous rumbling of thunder from someplace far off. Then a drizzle as you and Sylvain began up the mountain to the monastery. By the time you got past the main gate, you were already drenched, chilly water soaking through your dress and sticking your hair to your face. Lightning struck, closer than before. The rain that had started as a drizzle had become a violent onslaught. More thunder rumbled, and you could feel it in your bones.

“We should hurry,” Sylvain said, looking back at you. “Wanna make a break for it?”

And you nodded, took his offered hand. There was something wild about it, running through the rain with Sylvain’s warm hand keeping you steady. Lightning struck, and your laughter joined the thunder, water getting into your mouth. Even though your clothes were weighed down to the extreme, even though your shoes squished with each sloshing step, you felt lighter than you had in several moons. Happy. When the two of you came to a stop under cover of what you believed to be the staff dorms, your heart was pounding, and your blood raced as a combatant to the chill of the rain.

“This is my room,” Sylvain said, tapping the door behind himself. “You’re more than welcome to come in and dry off a little. I’ll lend you something to keep you warm on the way back.” In the dim light, you could see how the cold had paled his skin, making his cheeks —rosy from the run— that much more striking. More than that, locks of his red hair had plastered themselves to his forehead, and his shirt clung to his torso like a second skin. His grin was undeniably dashing, and he looked _good_. A genuine heart breaker. This was Sylvain. The man from the commons room was nowhere to be found.

“Okay, okay. Just for a bit,” you agreed. The trek across the grounds to your room might as well have been a walk around the world to you right then.

You followed him into the room, aware that you were dripping everywhere now that you were out of the rain. The airy dress you had worn was flat and sticking to your legs, holding water like a sponge. You could only imagine the wreck you looked. Sylvain shut the door on the storm outside, the sound muted and gentle through the layer of wood.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he said, hurrying past you. Sylvain, like most people in Garreg Mach, used magic lamps to light his room. His rather spacious room. You hadn’t known how much bigger the teacher’s dorms were, giving him enough space for an obtrusively large bed and set of drawers. Although the decoration was limited mainly to the embroidered comforter, colorful rug, and framed mirror above the drawers, it was far more luxurious than you were used to. Of course Sylvain would opt out of the tiny dorm rooms for something befitting his tastes.

“You should take off your shoes, wet socks won’t do you any good,” Sylvain said as he set a towel on the set of drawers, using another to dry his hair and face before letting it hang over one shoulder. He was already working on his own boots, a hand on the wall to steady him.

You took off your shoes before pausing. There was something obscene about reaching beneath your skirt to undo the bows keeping your stockings up, but he was right. You checked to make sure Sylvain wasn’t looking —he wasn’t, far too concerned with his own socks— and rolled them down and off, trying to keep your dripping skirt covering any indecent slip. The material made an unappetizing squishy plop when you let it fall to the stone floor. They wouldn’t be dry in time for you to leave, you’d just have to go sockless. At the very least, walking without the sloshing of rain pruning up the skin of your toes was a relief.

“Come on in, and don’t worry about the rain,” Sylvain said. “This room has seen _way_ worse than a little water.”

“Should I even ask?” you asked. The chest of drawers with the towel was beside the mirror—a big piece, tall and bordered by ornately carved wood that framed the reflected room. Why anyone would need a mirror so big, especially facing their bed so entirely, was beyond you. Not that it mattered because, to your horror, you looked exactly as bad as you feared. That is, like a drowned rat. Your hair stuck flatly to your head, and makeup ran in narrow black streaks down your cheeks. It wasn’t like you wore a lot, but the effect was embarrassing. Sylvain laughed abashedly, unaware of your personal horror.

“I meant blood! And dirt. War is a grimy business, you know. Unfortunately, front line guys like me just can’t seem to stay clean.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said, trying to do your best to clean up your face before anything else. “Maybe it should rain more often, the lack of stench might boost morale.” Sylvain’s fallen expression in the mirror behind you was worth every smear of makeup tears.

“Ouch,” he said, a hand on his chest. “That really cuts deep.”

You laughed, flipping your hair down to try and get as much of it dry as possible.

“You know, this isn’t exactly how I imagined getting you into my room,” Sylvain said, his voice muted through the fabric. His tone was playful, but the words struck a chord somewhere in your mind.

You stood up straight, looking behind yourself. “What’s that supposed to-” you cut yourself off with a surprised squeak, looking away the second you processed that Sylvain had taken off his shirt. You had seen him without a shirt before. Training, injured, swimming in the many rivers that wound around the base of the Oghma Mountains —but those were different situations. You had read enough bawdy fiction to know the difference between half-naked and shirtless, and Sylvain was the former. Especially, as he had just so helpfully highlighted, you were alone in his room.

“You should take off that dress,” Sylvain said as if he hadn’t noticed your reaction. “It’s soaking. Here, I can give you something to wear.” He didn’t say anything before coming up close behind you, reaching around to pull out a drawer full of what seemed like endless sweaters in dark tones. His arms were bare. You could almost feel the heat of his body.

With a sound that might have been an apology for being in the way, you stepped around him. “Right, thanks,” you said, doing your very best to keep your voice steady and eyes averted. You remembered right then that you only wore a slip underneath. The white fabric, soaked through with rainwater, would leave nothing to the imagination, and there wasn’t nearly enough privacy in his room to give you any place to hide.

“Are you okay?” Sylvain asked. You didn’t dare look to see his expression, but you knew he was looking at you. And he had to see, he wasn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination, but you kind of hoped that he didn’t because otherwise-

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to put on a playful front. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you planned this somehow. Aren’t there easier ways to get a girl out of her clothes?”

“Planned it? Not even I can control the weather, I guess I just got lucky on this one,” he said, winking. And that was it. He was too close and too naked and too flirtatious, and he absolutely knew what he was doing, and _you knew_ this was a bad idea.

“I should probably go,” you told him. “I shouldn’t have… I need to go.”

“Wait!” he grabbed your hand when you made to turn away, holding you from fleeing. You finally met his eyes dead-on, knowing your own were wide and that the hand he held was shaking. Winding up in this position was far too familiar. “Okay, so I know I messed up the other night. Big time. I know that, and I’m sorry. But tonight, you had to feel it, too. You and I are perfect together. You’re the only girl who has never gotten jealous or yelled at me for the way I am, even though I deserve it. And I know I can be a piece of crap and that I hurt you back in the academy days, but you still tried to get to know me. Not because of my Crest or title, but… Well, to be honest, I don’t even know why, but I know you care. I _know_ you’ll love me.” His grip on your hand was gentle, his thumb rubbing soft circles over the skin. “So stay tonight, let me prove it to you.”

“Stay?” you asked, clinging to the word as a point of rational thought. And you knew what Sylvain meant by it, what would happen if you didn’t leave, but you asked.

“C’mon, we both know you’re not that innocent,” he said, wearing an attempt at a roguish half-smile that didn’t fit the desperate need in his eyes. That facade dropped as quickly as it appeared, his voice losing its teasing lilt. “I swear it’ll be worth it.”

Your gaze slipped over to his bed, definitely big enough for two and inviting with its colorful quilt. But it was intimidating, too, like facing off with a sheer cliff knowing you were about to fall into the dark unknown. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you told him. Again. None of this was a good idea.

But you’d be cold until you were out of your wet clothes, and Sylvain was warm. If you put your head against his bare chest, you were sure you’d hear a sizzle against your cold cheek. And tonight. If it were just tonight, would you have said yes? But it wasn’t, too many other things had happened that you couldn’t ignore. You wished to, almost. But not even your romantic fancies stretched that far. 

“I love you,” Sylvain said, pulling your chin to force your eyes up to his, to force your attention all on him.

“Stop”

“It’s like I said, you drive me crazy.”

“No.” You were shaking your head, at least trying to, trying to deny this, him, everything. Sylvain’s expression drew inwards, becoming composed. Unreadable, almost.

“Fine, I’ll prove it to you.”

It wasn’t difficult for him to pull you into a kiss, you barely resisted. It wasn’t the first time you had kissed Sylvain. Five years ago, he had been your first kiss. That moment was pulled straight from the flowery prose of any young heartthrobs repertoire. He tasted like cinnamon tea, and his lips were plush, the embrace dizzyingly fleeting. All in all, it had been a chaste kiss.

This Sylvain tasted like the sweet fruit wine you’d indulged in earlier and rainwater, and he kissed you desperately, needfully. He kissed you like a man standing on the edge of the gallows, his hands in your hair, your neck, your shoulders. You didn’t know what you were doing; the onslaught was too overwhelming for rationale. Struggling, maybe, because he took the distraction to unbutton and push off your soaked dress. Kissing Sylvain wasn’t like in romance novels, with grand overtures and sweet metaphors. You could feel everything. His tongue in your mouth, his hands catching on the snarls in your wet hair, the cruel shiver of air when your wet skin was exposed, the invasive, frightening sensation of being in over your head. It hurt when he bit your lip, and your squeak of pain seemed to be the thing to bring him to his senses finally.

Sylvain swore when he pulled away, a vulgar sound that fell harshly between your shallow gasping. You couldn’t get in a full breath, his hand having settled in a loose grip around your neck, keeping your chin held high. Sylvain’s eyes were closed, the pale lids shot through with a lovely pattern of purple veins, his eyelashes dark and thick despite his red hair. His lips were red and wet. He was breathing hard, but you knew it was an attempt to steady himself. To not lose control.

This was Sylvain in control of himself, you realized. The thought made you whimper, pulling at his hand around your neck with renewed strength.

“I shouldn’t bring it up, I know,” he said, his eyes still closed despite the way his eyebrows knit. “But Crests make people stronger. At least some of them. Not like Dimitri, but…” His eyes opened, pinning you to the spot. “You’d never be able to win in a grapple against me. Believe me, I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t seem to stop myself. The more I try, the worse it gets.” You could barely make out the color of Sylvain’s eyes when they opened, the pupil dilated, and the shadows falling in just the wrong way to darken the brown. “So why don’t you hate me? You should. I’m awful; I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you. But even right now, I don’t see any hatred in your eyes.” Sylvain let out a heavy breath, his expression helpless, pleading. “After all I’ve done, why?”

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice tight and choked. Tears had formed in your eyes, hot and humiliating.

“I don’t want you to cry,” Sylvain said, looking at his hand around your neck as if only just remembering its presence and letting it drop. You raised your own hands to your neck, protecting it and attempting to cover yourself. In the cold, your nipples were pressing uncomfortably against the thin, wet fabric of your slip. It wasn’t erotic; it was embarrassing. He sighed, running an anxious hand through his hair. “I’m doing this all wrong. Usually, I’m pretty good with girls, especially with getting them into bed. I guess you’ve always been different, though.”

“I’m not,” you said. “You think that I’m different… You’re confused.”

“That’s the thing; I don’t think I am. I was before. I was completely lost before. Even when I said that thing about your father and proposing, that was wrong of me. I’ll never get your heart like that.” His mood shifted, a smile flashing across his face. It wasn’t honest, or at least as honest as any flirtatious smile could be. For once, you could see directly through the mask to the insecurities that laid beneath. “Don’t worry; I swear I’m going to be gentle.”

True to his word, his kiss was gentle this time. No teeth, no hand on your neck. Sylvain was patient in the way he got your wet slip undone and dropped to the floor, the way he urged you towards the bed. Even when you fought —and you knew you did, you had to— he was right, you were no match for him. It was romantic, there in the cage of his arms. He kissed your lips from center to corner, your jaw, your neck. His body above yours was unyielding, all muscle and heat.

It was surreal.

Your mouth freed, you were allowed to make as much noise as you wanted when his fingers found your nipples, teasing them in a way that made your back arch. Free to speak. “Stop, pl-”

“Have you read _Flowers of the Cursed_?” Sylvain asked to cut you off, his breath warm against your collar bone as he moved down your body. The question, so innocent, threw you off, distracted you.

“What?”

“It’s a poetry book. There’s one… “Hymn to Beauty.” Have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“There’s a stanza that reminds me of you.” Sylvain looked up directly, meeting your eyes. His were soft, loving. Needful.

“What is it?” The words soft, helpless, and compelled from you without thought. For once, they were the right ones. He grinned, readjusting himself.

“ _The dazzled moth to the candle flies-_ ”

You yelped as Sylvain pushed your thighs apart, settling between them. At some point, he’d managed to get out of his pants.

“ _Then frizzles, falls, and falters — “Blessed conqueror of gloom!_ ”

He wasn’t even looking at your face, scanning your body with the hungry expression of a man presented with a feast. You struggled. Too little, too late.

“ _The panting lover above his mistress fair-_ ”

You tried to kick him directly with the first touch of his fingers to the sensitive flesh at the apex of your thighs, violence born of instinct, but it didn’t phase him in the slightest. You were speaking too, but your voice was nothing to his recitation. Poetry, the thing you’d always shared.

“ _Looks like a dying man caressing his own tomb_.” He paused, finally meeting your eyes again. “But you don’t like romantic poetry, do you? At least, not the ‘fake stuff.’” That made him smile.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Just relax,” he said soothingly. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

The first kiss to the inside of your thigh did not help you relax. You weren’t naive, but this hadn’t been what you were expecting. Sylvain didn’t let the shock and anticipation simmer too long, getting your thighs spread even wider to make room for him and there was only so much you could do to fight, pulling at his hair and moving around but it made no difference. He spread your outer lips and licked a broad stripe across the sensitive flesh and over your clit. It was shocking more than pleasurable, the sensation too foreign to be recognized as anything other than strange. But your hips bucked up against him, your inner walls fluttering with the recognition of need. You were only human, and the chaos of your mind didn’t constrain your body. Sylvain repeated the motion, and this time you were braced for it, receptive to it. You shuddered, tugging at his hair.

You knew you were talking, repeating rejections over and over as if either of you were listening to them. You knew that you were proving Sylvain’s point, the coil of simmering tension in your core building and tightening with every hot pattern his tongue blazed across your clit. His fingers kept teasing at your hole, circling it without pushing in like you expected them to. Like you wanted them to, maybe. That was what was natural, wasn’t it? The primal need to have something inside of you, filling you.

When Sylvain’s name fell from your lips in a sound of unquestionable pleasure, he stopped. Thus far, you had avoided looking down at him between your legs, afraid of what you’d seen. Afraid that you’d feel a stroke of heat blaze in your core. But as he got up, he was excited, his cheeks red, his eyes bright, his hair an utter mess from your hands.

He was going to fuck you. That was all you could think, the only conclusion that you could draw from all that had happened thus far. You weren’t tied down or held captive in any way. Maybe you could fight him, reason with him. But you didn’t. You met Sylvain’s eyes with the knowing submission to what was going to happen.

“Gotta admit, it’s harder than I thought it would be to be patient. But don’t worry, I intend to make good on my promise,” he said, looking away from you with a little laugh, pushing a hand through his unruly hair.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Come here,” he said, gesturing you towards him at the edge of the bed. He was very naked and half hard. And big. You never thought about that, had never really directly thought about the way he physically outclassed you. You sat up slowly and uncertainty, legs together as if you could ignore the tingling reminder of pleasure that was left untended to, almost ready to bolt off the bed now that you had the chance. Sylvain pulled you against him before you could make that choice, turning the both of you around until you realized what he was intending.

The large mirror reflected everything on the bed—you, naked and flushed and disheveled with Sylvain behind you, your legs straddling his.

“No,” you protested, trying to wriggle away from the sight, but Sylvain kept you in place.

“You’re really perfect, you know?” he said, his voice rumbling against your back. “I thought about this a hundred times by now, but none of it holds a candle to this.”

The angle wasn’t perfect, but his arms and fingers were longer than yours, allowing him better access than you had on your own as his right-hand dove down between your legs and pushed a finger into you. There wasn’t much resistance, after everything he had done to make you wet, dripping for him. All so you could watch as his finger entered you, so you could feel the way you tightened around the digit. Even more noticeable was the sound you made, the way your hips jerked forward, your body tensing in his hold.

“Hah, you’re so sensitive. I guess I should have expected that,” Sylvain said, the bass in his voice filling your head. You wanted to protest to the teasing tone he used, but instead, you watched with a sort of horror, fascination, _lust_ as he added another finger and curled them deep inside of you.

Then your eyes were closed, and a soft, keening type of moan left your mouth because it felt good. You were sensitive because Sylvain had been priming you to be, working you up. It was his fault, but you couldn’t think of a way to tell him so.

“Sensitive girls are my favorite, you know,” he continued, as if oblivious to your preoccupation. “Find just the riiiiiight spot and-” You squeaked in surprise when the pads of his exploring fingers found a particularly pleasurable place inside of you, your body jolting against the arm he had wrapped around your waist to keep you in place. That sound became a needy objection of a sound because Sylvain had the audacity to laugh, focusing on the spot with more intent as he casually thrust his fingers in and out of you.

It was embarrassing enough that he was touching you in such a way, but the knowledge that the mirror was allowing himself to see everything so entirely was even worse. 

“Stop,” you said, purposefully avoiding looking in the mirror, your voice tight.

“You really want me to stop?” Sylvain asked, his playful tone bordering on mean. But he did stop. And you hated it, your hips pushing for more from his long fingers. And he laughed, again, his long middle fingers pumping in and out of you while his thumb rubbed against your clit. And you were shaking, each of his moments coiling up raw pleasure in your core. Your head fell back against his shoulder, but it was impossible not to see the reflected image of the two of you in your peripheral.

“Look at yourself,” he said, his voice brushing across the skin of your bared neck. You made a sound of objection, squeezing your eyes shut. “C’mon, look at the way your body responds to me.” His offhand wrapped around your jaw and pulled your head forward. Opening your eyes was instinctual to being manhandled, and the sight was something not even the most obscene of fantasies could prepare you for. Trembling, flushed, panting, _obscene_. You were going to come around his fingers, pressed against his chest. You were going to prove his point. “No other guy could make you feel like this. You know that, right? Tell me why that is.”

“You’re… You’re wrong,” you got out despite your uneven breathing. 

His teeth sunk into your neck. Sylvain _bit_ you. It wasn’t as painful as it was surprising, shocking. The way he sucked on the skin afterward was even worse, making you shudder in pleasure against him, a helpless noise leaving your mouth. “Try again.”

“No… Sylvain…” you whined, your head unintentionally falling backward as he increased the pace. He was close to being violent, but you didn’t _care_ if it was harsh or if it hurt because right then, it was the best thing you’d ever felt. Wrong or not wrong, the scent of Sylvain’s skin was familiar. Safe. The pleasure was overwhelming. And you-

“That’s right, baby,” he said, the smile written into every syllable of those words. You winced at the pet name. “It’s okay if you can’t say it yet,” he told you, his voice soft against your neck. Sweet. Tender. “Just come for me, okay?”

“No… I can’t…” Those words were meaningless because you _could_. Because you _did_. As you felt your body tensing, trembling, pulling taut, you peeking through your eyelashes at the reflection. Not at yourself, coming apart at the seams while Sylvain’s fingers brought you to orgasm, his other hand digging deep indents into the flesh of your waist, but at his expression. What did you know of love? Nothing, nothing. You knew nothing, and yet you were sure you saw it on his face at that moment. And you came around his fingers, moaning in spite of yourself. Your hands held onto the arm wrapped around your waist like a safety bar, your head thrown back onto his shoulders and lips red and parted. Right then, even your self-loathing was erotic, the world converging into a smear of sensation and color.

Sylvain stopped when you began shaking, letting you come down —inviting everything that was wrong with your world to return to your mind. You didn’t want to face yourself, your awful reflection in the mirror, but the only other place to turn to was his arms, your cheek finding the hollow of his neck. You were sweaty and hot and pulsing with pleasure and expectation and loathing, and you were still falling into the dark. The unknown.

Sylvain sighed, a satisfied sound that turned into something like a breathless laugh. Then he kissed your forehead, an act of raw and sweet affection. And that was when you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sylvain wasn’t going to let you go. His arm was only lazily around your waist, but his body was taut with unreleased tension, and his erection was pressing against your thigh, and you had heard the thing he called love in his final words, felt it in that kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> i read like... ten different gothic poets' work to settle on stealing from charles baudelaire
> 
> some good shit


End file.
